


2:30 am

by catsmiaow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Late Night Conversations, M/M, Phone Sex, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 15:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmiaow/pseuds/catsmiaow
Summary: In the early morning hours, not everyone sleeps soundly.





	2:30 am

Two-thirty in the am was not a pretty time in London. For that matter, that pm of that time wasn't all that wonderful either with the traffic just starting to build and far too many grumpy people beginning to trickle their way home. It was the early morning hours that had too many awake who had no right to be. It might be the hour of artists and writers, but it was also the time of prostitutes, murderers, thieves and all manner of other sorts that made him check his home cameras. Not because he was afraid of someone robbing him. Well, at least not of anything material.

And found _The Message_ waiting for him.

Mycroft Holmes stood before a glass wall that some architect had decided to put in his hotel room. Granted, it gave a heart-stopping view of the city as if it were jeweler’s velvet laid with glittering gems, but none of those lights out there were the ones of London. Hands folded behind him and posture perfect, Mycroft gave the view below a withering look that would have sent that particular architect scurrying away with numerous apologies.

Of course then he had to check his cellular. Again. The glare of his Blackberry lit Mycroft's face briefly as he studied the email message for the sixth time since receiving it ten minutes ago. It was just past midnight there.

_Your side of the bed is too empty tonight._

His lover wasn't much for words, and Mycroft would be the first to admit it. Gregory Lestrade was blunt to a fault. Of course, the attached graphic of Greg laid out bare on their bed...

Mycroft wasn't one to give into base urges, so instead he stood there watching the city sleep while that picture was burnt into his mind.

_Greg's hand caught mid-stroke. His nose buried against Mycroft's pillow. Head starting to tilt back at just that angle Mycroft knew too well warned of him being **close**. The tip of his tongue touching his lips in another telling sign. Grey-black hair ruffled with sleep. Sheets pooled around thighs still strong when they wrapped around Mycroft's waist._

A touch of his fingertip sent the picture and message away as he tapped out the private phone number of the woman who really made the decisions on this country versus the figurehead who claimed to.

However, there would be reprisals when he got home that involved Greg's handcuffs..

\---------

John Watson tried to cover his head with his pillow as the sound of a tortured violin came from the other room. Why, oh why, did he live with a man who managed to wring such horrible sounds from a usually beautiful sounding instrument? He could remember the violin's being called the 'human voice'. It was as if Sherlock were using it to scream out his boredom and mindlessness when he couldn't articulate it himself. Or maybe it was Sherlock's craving for narcotics given a painful wailing voice of want. Either way, John Watson saw his chances of sleeping tonight vanishing.

Slogging his way to his laptop, John stared at it blankly. There was nothing he could think of to blog about, and there weren't any comments he needed to reply to. Now if he could only convince himself that the little digital display didn't read 2:30 am.

Another 'musical' shriek from below sent a shudder through his spine. Maybe the Stradivarius he saw when peering through the F-holes on it was a fake. People had hoped for more far-fetched things surely.

Clicking over to Sherlock's site, John Watson flushed a bright red. He bit his lips, looking about suspiciously as if he expected Sherlock to poke his head through the door at any moment. He was a man, damn it. He could do this! And it might just distract Sherlock for awhile, at least long enough for him to get back to sleep!

Verbal pornography usually wasn't his forte`, but John could cut and paste with the best of them from some of those NC-17 sites. It wouldn't take much to compose a letter.

\--------------

Gregory Lestrade sighed as he rolled over yet again and found that sleep was still eluding him. Mycroft's pillow, the man's cologne still clinging to it, was ending up a tease. The picture that he had fired off to Mycroft had been a tease as well, although he had finished himself quick enough. How could he resist with that scent still imprinted all over their sheets and that damned pillow? How could he try to sleep with that wrapped around him and knowing that the man himself was two timezones away?

“Fuck,” he said out loud. Ha. Let Mycroft's microphones pick that up and relay to him. There were listening and seeing devices all around him, and Lestrade knew it. If Mycroft wanted, he probably could have watched Greg stroking himself with his nose buried against Mycroft's pillow live instead of just a snapshot. A small smirk rose. He hoped Mycroft had. Misery loved company, didn't it?

“Need you. Want you,” he muttered into Mycroft's pillow.

If Mycroft were here, it meant that some assassin that was luckier than smart couldn't get off a shot. If Mycroft was here, then he wouldn't be in some distant night where anything could happen. Maybe this was how Mycroft felt when Greg pulled the night shift. That wasn't a pleasant thought.

“Just come home.”

Hearing his phone chirp annoyingly, Lestrade gave up on the pretense of sleep and flipped it open to view his email.

He stopped and slid on his glasses then to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was.

Evidently, he had underestimated the Holmes brothers (or at least one of them) and their ability to make a point.

_Leave your handcuffs on the nightstand._   
_Flight arriving in four hours._   
_Clothing is not optional._   
_Call in sick now for tomorrow._

And people thought he was blunt. Dialing the duty desk, Lestrade used his best _sick-with-the-flu_ voice as he tossed his pyjama bottoms to the floor. Then he fished his handcuffs out and set them on Mycroft's nightstand. Along with the key.

Losing a key wasn't an incident he ever wanted to repeat.

\----------

It was shortly a surprisingly quiet night in Holmes-Watson household sometime after three am.

About an hour after a certain flight had landed, the same could be said of the Holmes-Lestrade one.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and reposted from a dead acct.


End file.
